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    House for Sale (A Short Tale of Horror)
    House for Sale (A Short Tale of Horror)
    House for Sale (A Short Tale of Horror)
    Ebook37 pages41 minutes

    House for Sale (A Short Tale of Horror)

    By Joseph Turkot

    3.5/5

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    About this ebook

    This is a short horror tale. It works upon the psyche of suburban safety. All of us rely upon a certain feeling of certainty and security that can quickly become an illusion. Read on, and beware this House for Sale.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherJoseph Turkot
    Release dateJun 25, 2013
    ISBN9781498938167
    House for Sale (A Short Tale of Horror)

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      Book preview

      House for Sale (A Short Tale of Horror) - Joseph Turkot

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      © 2012 by Joseph Turkot

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      WARNING!

      This is a horror tale. It works upon the psyche of suburban safety. All of us rely upon a certain feeling of certainty and security that can quickly become an illusion. Read on, and beware this House for Sale.

      HOUSE FOR SALE

      WE PICKED THE CUTEST HOUSE ON THE BLOCK. IT’S small, but for us, it was just right. If you open the front door, you’ll walk right into our living room, eight by ten feet large. Walk further in and you’ll be standing in the dining room. Now you have a choice to make—a right turn yields a tiny bathroom and two bedrooms; going straight will get you into the kitchen. There’s a door near the back right of the kitchen leading into the basement and the backyard. Water fills the basement when it rains, but it’s rather big; besides the water coming in, its only other flaw is the height of its ceiling—one has to duck occasionally if he stands the height of five-foot nine. The crowning jewel, however, of the entire bungalow, is its attic. Though tiny, in perfect conformity with the rest of the place, it is finished with carpet, and stretches back by way of a thin hallway to a door, through which lies a wide, inhabitable space above the living and bed rooms. The stairs leading to it are accessed from the bedroom we used as an office, furthest from the front door.

      A blue porch juts forward into a quiet street, and sitting thereupon on a quaint fall afternoon, one spies the green of a park across the street. A set of swings seldom move in the soft wind, and beyond them, the playground leads by way of a gate into a wide, often-trimmed, soccer field. If you walked further still in that direction, you’d reach a half-mile’s depth of impenetrable woods. Follow their edge though, and you would pass behind the soccer field, discovering a track one-tenth of a mile long in circumference, a rounded oblong course with a heart of mown grass. The town is a quiet, ordinary suburb; it is noisy with children at the height of day, but silent as death at night. When you walk across the street to the swings,

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